


Cycle of Life

by chibi_nightowl



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Afterlife, Angst, Mentions of canon characters - Freeform, Other, Philosophy, Resurrection, Seconds Chances, Writing Prompt Fill, background jaytim, death and life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-03 22:38:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14579142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibi_nightowl/pseuds/chibi_nightowl
Summary: “You get to write the story of someone's life. Everything, from the moment they’re born to the moment they die. Their life, thoughts, experiences, that’s all up to you.”“Are you for real?” Jason laughed and shook his head. “This has got to be some kind of joke.”The man shook his head as well. “It’s no joke. You’ll write a story for someone’s life just as someone else wrote the story of yours.”Jason grew still, his rage instantly boiling underneath the surface.“They what?”





	Cycle of Life

**Author's Note:**

> This is not my typical story. I've been working on this off and on for a few months now, ever since I found the prompt on Tumblr. But I never would have been able to finish it without the assistance of redrobinfection. Thank you so much, hon, for the thought provoking insight!

_ After you die, you end up in a room with a book and a pen in front of you; Your job, to write the life story of a someone just born, just as someone did for you. Everything they do, think, or experience is up to you. #wordsnstuff _

 

Jason thought he was used to the universe playing one cosmic joke on him after another. How else could he explain the complete and utter clusterfuck that was his life? He could admit that were some high points (he didn’t care what anyone said, when he first put on that uniform, Robin was  _ magic _ ), but there were more low points than anything else.

He was tired of it. Tired of fighting a fight he could never win. Tired of seeking acceptance from someone who would never give it to him. Sure, he marched to the beat of his own drum more often than not, but it was a lonely path.

So when that bullet caught him in the thigh and nicked his femoral artery, he didn’t complain. Much. Jason kept shooting until his bullets ran out. The strap he barely had a chance to tie in place over the wound wasn’t able to keep up the pressure, not with how he forced his body to twist and turn to provide cover for his replacement, who was dealing with an injured demon bird.

The silence echoed around them as the last of the gunfire disappeared. “How’s he lookin’?” Jason ground out through gritted teeth. He was losing blood fast, he could feel it.

“He’ll be fine,” Tim replied somewhat stiffly. He’d taken a good hit to the ribs earlier; Jason wouldn’t be surprised if he’d managed to crack one, even with the armor they all wear. “B and N are on their way. ETA is five.”

Five minutes too long as far as Jason was concerned. He knew what those dark spots in his vision meant. The quick breathing and the rapid heartbeat. Hopefully the replacement would think he was just riding the high from a good, but stressful, fight. It was time to get out of here.

“You okay to cover this position?” Jason checked, trying to keep his breathing level. “I’m pretty sure I got the guy who was sniping us, but better safe than sorry.”

Tim waved him off without a word, his attention on the still unconscious Damian. The kid had taken a solid  _ thwack _ to the head when one of the now deceased mooks decided to throw him into a metal shipping container. This was why Jason wore a helmet these days.

Not that it was doing him much good right now.

Jason took one last look at his replacement and the demon bird. It was better this way. Really. No muss, no fuss.

He managed to stay upright as he left the protection of their somewhat dubious cover, but as soon as he turned the corner, Jason let himself collapse against the shipping container. He wasn’t worried about getting shot again. The sniper had been good, but he was better. It was getting harder to breathe. The clasps for his hood gave way under his questing fingers. If these were his last moments on earth, then by God, he was going to breathe fresh air.

Or what passed for fresh air here in the shipping yards. Still, as he slid to the ground and tossed his helmet aside, the moon on the water was pretty. Much better than last time and the flashing red numbers that counted down his final seconds.

In the distance, he thought he heard a voice shouting. Jason didn’t turn his head, preferring to stare out over the water rather than at his older brother. A small smile cracked his lips. Go fucking figure that only now would he admit he had brothers. Three of them. And a sister, even if she was halfway around the world right now.

The shouting grew closer and farther away at the same time, as though it were echoing down some long tunnel. He heard his name and felt someone drop down heavily next to him.  _ “Jason!” _

He ignored them and kept his eyes trained on the moonlit water for as long as he could. Hands started pawing at him, trying to find where he was wounded. They were up too high, which they’d find out soon enough.

This time was better, Jason decided as his eyes dropped shut, embracing the soothing darkness that drowned out Dick’s shouts. Much better.

~*~*~

Waking up wasn’t something Jason expected. Waking up laying on his back wearing a comfortable pair of jeans and a t-shirt wasn’t part of the plan either. Death was the eternal sleep, one he never wanted to wake up from because dammit, it wasn’t as though he slept all that well in the first place. He’d been looking forward to playing catch-up for the rest of eternity.

Still, as he sat up to look around, it could be worse. He could be in Gotham, trapped in the cave below the Manor to the tender loving mercies of Alfred and Leslie. A twinge of guilt flashed through him. Alfred. Now there was someone he wouldn’t have minded having the chance to say good-bye to. His second death would undoubtedly hit the old man hard.

Jason took in the four rough cut walls around him. He was in some sort of cabin, with the windows wide open and fresh air (real fresh air, just like he imagined it would smell and taste like; no more of the smog choked air of Gotham) and sunshine streaming in. He rose cautiously from the low bed and his bare feet came in contact with a soft rug. A pair of boots sat over the door.

What the fuck was going on? He shook his head, trying to dispel the last of the wooziness from his awakening.

A cursory inspection of the cabin revealed he was the only one here. It was well stocked with food and other provisions he needed. Clothing for all seasons was found in the closet and books lined one of the cabin walls in neat shelves. He discovered there was plumbing in the small kitchen. Even the bathroom had plumbing too, which Jason was privately grateful for because outhouses just weren’t his thing, city boy that he was. There seemed to be some rudimentary electrical setup too, generator operated, which gave him cause to wonder about the power source. A sheathed hunting knife rested on a small table next to the door, but no guns. He even found fishing tackle.

The most curious thing of all though was the well-appointed writing desk that sat up against one of the open windows. It was a writer’s dream, with plenty of paper, pens, pencils, clips, and binders all neatly arranged and ready to go. Even the lighting was perfect and Jason was under no impression that if he were to sit in that office chair, he’d find it would contour to his body as well.

Rather than sit down, Jason put on socks and the boots, grabbed the knife, and stepped outside.

He swore instantly. “Son of a bitch.” Looking around, he knew where he was.

It was his dream of what heaven looked like. The vibrant forest around him was just as he always imagined it would appear. A breeze blew gently through the trees, rustling leaves as it passed. A squirrel chittered at something unseen and there was bird song in the distance. There was even a pond, which he was willing to bet was stocked with more than just fish, but little painted turtles too. It was the complete opposite of everything he ever knew, the quiet solitude a definite contrast to the loud cacophony of the city.

In other words, it was a transcendentalist’s dream. This quiet corner of eternity was now his.

“I really died this time,” he muttered to himself. “Well, isn’t that just a kick in the ass?”

“Well, that’s how it was written.”

Jason whirled around and looked back inside the cabin. On the couch before the fireplace was a man dressed all in white. At first glance, he looked kind of like Morgan Freeman. Sounded like him too. But that couldn’t be right. In his ideal afterlife, there wasn’t anyone but him and his books.

The figure smiled knowingly. “And you’ll certainly get that, Jason. After all, with the life you’ve had, you deserve some peace and quiet.”

Fingering the knife, Jason stepped back inside, looking around again in case he’d missed anyone else. He knew the place had been empty when he stepped out. Was positive of it. “Who’re you?” he asked, trying and failing at politeness.

“I’m the one who built this little place for you,” the dark skinned man said. He really did sound like Morgan Freeman, which was all kinds of messed up. “Got everything ready for your arrival. I knew it was coming.” He held up a thickly bound book.

Jason narrowed his eyes. “You’re not one of the Endless.” He’d heard of them before, stories he wasn’t supposed to have heard between Bruce and Dinah one night after Black Canary returned to the cave with them and discussing Dr. Fate. Death was supposed to be some goth chick and there was another…Dream, was it? Destiny? One of them was supposed to have a book bound to them.

“The Endless are a rather amusing conceit,” the man replied. “Very original, even if lacking in reality.”

“And this is real?” Jason can’t help the sarcasm. He was more confused now than he was before.

“This is very real.” The Morgan Freeman figure stood and walked around the sofa to lean against the desk. “Where else are you going to write the next tale?”

Jason really wished he had a gun right now. The urge to shoot the man grew stronger by the second. “Me? Write? I’m a reader, buddy, not a writer.”

“That’s what you all say at first,” the man stated in that honey smooth voice. “But you soon grow to enjoy it.”

“So what is this then? I write a story for my room and board here in Heaven?” It was a novel idea, he’d grant them that. He bit back the smirk for his cheesy pun.

“More than that,” the man replied. “You get to write the story of someone's life. Everything, from the moment they’re born to the moment they die. Their life, thoughts, experiences, that’s all up to you.”

“Are you for real?” Jason laughed and shook his head. “This has got to be some kind of joke.”

The man shook his head as well. “It’s no joke. You’ll write a story for someone’s life just as someone else wrote the story of yours.”

Jason grew still, his rage instantly boiling underneath the surface.  _ “They what?” _

“You heard me.”

“Yeah. I really wish I hadn’t because  _ what the fuck? _ Someone sat here and wrote a goddamned story about just how fucked up my life was? What the shit? I died once already and I don’t remember any of this!”

“That’s because it was part of your story,” the man replied calmly. “You weren’t supposed to come here the first time. You were always meant to wake up and experience that second life.”

Jason thought he was going to be sick. The very thought that someone sat there and  _ wrote _ all the things that happened to him, all the traumas he experienced, just for shits and giggles to pay their passage into heaven? No. Fucking no. Who could be that cruel?

This wasn’t Heaven. It was Hell, even if the package it was wrapped up in looked all nice and pretty. “What happens when I’m done?”

“Then you’re free to move on.” The man stood up straight and tugged at the ends of his sleeves, adjusting the cuffs. “You can take some time here to think things over, come up with your plot. The blue binder here has instructions and some general guidelines for you to follow, but overall, the life you write is yours, whatever you want it to be. I’ll check in with you periodically. Until then…” He winked and vanished into thin air.

Which was good because the hunting knife embedded itself in the wall right where his head had been. Jason’s aim wasn’t off just because he was dead. “Fuck,” he swore vehemently. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,  _ FUCK! _ ”

~*~*~

Jason purposefully avoided the writing desk for several days as he tried to calm down and think about the situation. Difficult didn’t even begin to describe it because if there was ever a time to have an existential crisis, this was it. Who was he, really? Everything he ever thought, believed, experienced, you name it, it was all a sham. He was nothing more than a character in a book written by some jackwagon paying their own way into paradise.

They must have thought they were so clever, creating the entire mythos of Bruce, Clark, Diana, every single superhero and villain…At the same time, a small part of him admired it because the ability to construct an entire world with such a colorful (literally in some cases) cast of characters was simply amazing.

He was torn between wanting to kill them and shake their hand, which pissed him off even more.

Avoiding the cabin soon became his number one goal, so Jason passed the time by traipsing around the forest, learning the limits of his little world. It was bigger than he initially expected, taking about a day in any direction to reach the end. And what an end…sun-dappled forest giving way to a cliff overlooking the rest of eternity. He was on his own little island of existence, the dark nothingness of space all around him and countless numbers of stars shining in the distance. Jason spent a day and a night sitting on the edge of that cliff, just staring and trying to take it all in.

The only thing he determined was that each star had to be its own little pocket of the afterlife. Which meant there were others here, stuck in the same situation, wrapped up in various thoughts about life, death, and the vicious cycle they found themselves in. Or were these all places he could go to after his own solitary exile was done? Islands of possibilities, heaven to some and hell to others? Jason narrowed his eyes. Out there somewhere in the sea of infinity was his own creator. All that mattered right now was getting out of here so that he could find them and have a few choice words with them. Followed by a few choice maimings because it wasn’t as though death was an option here. A bullet between the eyes was too good for them.

So, how to do it? Was there a way around writing the damned story?

Well, if there was one thing the person who created him did right, it was that they made him a survivor. Jason Todd took shit from no one and did things his way. It still didn’t mean he didn’t want to tear this person to shreds for the kind of life they gave him. He took a great amount of pleasure imagining it.

Seriously, he was beaten within an inch of his life and blown up at age fifteen by a fucking clown. He clawed his way out of his grave. Closed in spaces, especially ones with poor ventilation, gave him the heebie-jeebies to this day. All of his memories, they were  _ real _ . He lived them. Every. Single. One. What kind of fucked up mind created all this? They may as well have added in a hotline for readers to call in and interact with the story.

Press one for him to live. Press two for him to die.

The cliff became Jason’s place to think, whether they were deep and ponderous thoughts on the meaning of reality, predetermination, and fate or burning rage where he railed against his situation and threw curses out into the infinite. He walked the full circumference of his island many times, one large circle in the middle of nowhere. 

Jason would often stand on the cliff’s edge, just staring blankly off into the void, his brain as quiet as everything around him. There was a calming effect thinking about nothing. A balm on his ripped and tattered soul. Nothing mattered anymore. He was the epitome of nobody and everybody. All the things he thought were so important, that he believed in, were figments of someone else’s imagination.

A thought skittered across his still pond, disturbing his serenity with the ripples in its wake. What was the point in it all? Why should he write someone else’s story only for them to go through this same thing when they die? His creator made him a rebel, so…

Without even thinking it through, Jason stepped over the edge.

This was him, rebelling.

Or he would be, if he could just fall properly. The familiar rush of air flowing past him, the sensation of motion, gravity tugging him closer and closer to the ground were all absent. Oh, he was falling, and the stars, no other worlds, were all around him, but he was no closer to them than he was before. Jason looked up and saw nothing.

But for all that he felt the absence of gravity, it sure hit him in the face when he landed hard on the ground at the top of the cliff.

“Ow.”

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Jason refused to even spare the man a glance. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“It looks like you’re trying to get out of writing a book.” The man didn’t sound upset at all. If anything, he was amused.

“I refuse to put someone else through this complete and utter bullshit. Nothing matters anymore.” Jason rolled over. Above him, the leaves rustled in the gentle breeze, revealing the confluence where his blue sky met the inky black of infinity. The borders of his prison.

“Doesn’t it though?” The man sat down beside him, heedless of grass stains on his white linen suit. “Everything you know, everything you’ve learned, experienced, remember, that’s all you. It was real and nobody is taking that away from you. Part of the human experience is to learn and grow, just as it is to pass on those experiences to the next generation, so to speak.”

“How does that even work?” Jason retorted sourly. “How does progress occur if we’re limited by the breadth of our own experiences?”

“You’re only limited by your imagination,” the man replied with a wry grin. “You’re a rather well-read individual, so you tell me.”

Jason refused to fall into that trap. Still, there was one thing he wanted to know. “You said everything that essentially makes me, well,  _ me _ , happened. Does that mean everything I’ve read was real too?”

“Yes. A novel within a novel, so to speak. But honestly, if you’d just read the binder, you would have been past this point already.”

“The binder is my bible?” Jason said derisively.

“If you choose to look at it that way.” The man stood and ran his hands over his pants, shaking loose little pieces of grass. “You’re welcome to write whatever strikes your fancy, Jason. When you’re done, you’re free to go wherever you want.”

He was gone before Jason could respond.

Not that it stopped him from shouting into the void. “I’m holding you to that, you creepy Morgan Freeman wannabe!”

There was a faint laugh on the back of the wind.

For the first time in what felt like an age, Jason returned to his cabin. But rather than start reading the damned binder, he took a long overdue shower. Afterwards, he explored the kitchen again. Hunger didn’t seem to be part of his routine anymore, but he made himself a sandwich from what he found in the pantry. Nothing was spoiled from when he was here before. In fact, it still looked as pristine as it did when he first found it.

Jason could agree with Bruce on this one. He hated magic.

Sandwich finished, he collapsed heavily into the office chair and glared at the binder. If he had heat vision, it would be in cinders, along with the rest of the desk. He didn’t want to do this, but it was glaringly obvious just how much of a choice he didn’t have. His one goal was to meet the motherfucker who screwed him over and kill them, never mind how impossible such a feat may be considering they were both dead. This person wrote Jason to be creative and vindictive, so he’s sure he can find a way to make their afterlife miserable.

Once his own story was done.

With that in mind, he opened the binder.

~*~*~

The binder didn’t suck as much as Jason expected it to. In fact, it was really fucking helpful. That didn’t stop him from chucking it against the wall when he realized it because he could have been a month into this damn thing and that much closer to the end. Not to mention, as soon as he read the part about supplemental learning materials to help with his writing, a new bookcase appeared out of nowhere filled with everything he could possibly dream of; the topics even changed as he thought of something new.

Jason lost a few months just sitting there reading, one tangent leading into the next. It was all fascinating, but he found himself missing having someone there to talk to about what he had learned. Someone to argue with. The little turtle in the pond that he sort of made friends with wasn’t much of a conversationalist. And forget the birds; they just came for the breadcrumbs. 

When he realized exactly how much time had passed, he swore six ways to Sunday and pulled himself away to return to the binder.

His instructions were simple, just like the man had said. He was to write the life of someone just born. All their thoughts, actions, beliefs, experiences, the whole nine yards. It was all up to him. No copping out by writing the infant’s death within hours of birth. No, he had to give them a full life.

Jason had been 23 when he died for good. Young to be sure, but he can’t say it had been empty or lacking in experience. He glanced out the open window, at the sun dappled pond where the light breeze rippled across the surface. “A child soldier,” he muttered. “That’s what you made me, whoever you are. Well, let’s turn this story around.”

Ever since he’d learned he had to write this story, only one made sense to him. There was nothing against it in the binder either.

He would rewrite the story of his life and have it turn out the way he wished it would. This was one thing eternity had given him so far…the time to think. There was a fair amount of good things that happened to him, which was easy to lose track of under the fuckton of shit that occurred as well. For once, he was going to focus on the good. That didn’t mean certain things weren’t going to happen though. These events helped shape who he turned into, how he thought, and what he believed.

For all the shit he gave Bruce, there was still one indomitable truth Jason held dear.

Robin gave him magic. So Robin this new kid would become.

Jason picked up his pen and started writing.

The early years were the hardest. Trying to write the mindset of an infant, then a toddler, was challenging, even with the tips provided by the binder. It wasn’t until the new kid (whom he named after himself; this kid was him, so why not?) got to about age five that it started becoming easier, even as thoughts became more complex.

Little Jason didn’t have quite the same childhood that dead Jason did. Sure, he still grew up in the Bowery, but Willis Todd was around a bit more often and Catherine Todd managed to get and hold a job at a diner in the neighborhood. Food wasn’t exactly plentiful but he didn’t starve. Willis was still an asshole though, so when he finally left, it wasn’t the end of the world. Well, it was to little Jason, but he focused on helping his mom instead, especially once it became apparent she was sick and wasn’t getting better. Stealing became a way of life in order to help make ends meet. He was good at it too.

This part hurt to write, so Jason took a break. Wandering through his forest helped, as did sitting by the pond and fishing. He just needed to sort out his thoughts. In this story, Sheila Haywood didn’t exist. She was never his mother and he’d been a fool to ever believe otherwise. By eliminating her from the picture altogether, the whole mess in Ethiopia would never happen.

But it brought up something Jason hadn’t pondered yet; he’d been avoiding it actually.

The Joker.

This was his story, so what did he want to do with the Joker? He had a chance here to right some wrongs, not only his own, but Barbara’s as well. Her shooting and subsequent paralysis turned her into one of the most powerful figures on the planet, one whose real face only a select few in the hero community even knew, so well-guarded was her secret. What Babs made herself into was awe-inspiring, even if it was just the work of his writer. He forced himself to remember that these events did happen; it was all real, so to think of it as a work of fiction took away something quintessential from her.

Jason sighed as he lounged on the little wooden pier. Hanging over the edge as he was, he could see fish swimming around lazily in the water. “Damned if I do and damned if I don’t,” he muttered, not expecting a reply.

“Plot issue?”

He yelped in surprise, jerking up and around to take stock of his visitor. There was the man in white at the end of the pier closest to shore, completely at ease with his hands in the pockets of his loose fitting trousers. “Do you have a bell or something you could ring before just randomly appearing outta nowhere?”

“Nope!” the man replied cheerfully, making his way down the dock to sit next to him. “But I will admit, I’m glad to see you’ve finally buckled down. Made some good process too.”

“You reading over my shoulder?”

The man laughed, all rich and plummy in that smooth voice of his. “That would be spoiling things.”

Jason narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “I’m rewriting my life.”

“I thought you might,” the man nodded slowly. “Considering everything that happened, it’s only natural to want to see a better ending.”

“That bother you at all?”

“Of course not.” The man stared off into the distance for a time before turning his attention back on Jason. “I assume the new boy will live longer than you?”

Jason scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Duh. I’m just trying to decide if something horrible that happened in my story should occur in this one. You said everyone was real, right?” He had to double check.

“I did. Every single person was real. Even the ones who weren’t technically people at all. You had a lot of monsters in your story.”

It came across as an idle comment, but Jason picked up the slightest hint of reproach. “Hey, I didn’t write them,” he replied.

The man eyed him for a moment. “No, you didn’t,” he agreed. “So, at the risk of a spoiler, what are you debating about having happen again?”

Jason glanced back out over the water. He felt sick for even contemplating it. “Barbara and the Joker shooting her.”

“Ah,” the man replied, nodding slowly. “You weren’t there that night, but you read the report and the news after.”

“Yeah.” God, he was still broken up over that night. He’d been on a school trip, one he’d been so excited about at the time. His guilt nearly ate him alive when he returned home.

“I wish I could help, but that’s against the rules. Still, I will leave you with this.” The man stood and gazed down at Jason. “Think it through. The choices you make now will impact the story later. Also, for what it’s worth, I thought Barbara was a very engaging character, especially once she came into her own.”

With that bit of supposedly sage advice, he disappeared.

“Fucking useless,” Jason mumbled to the turtle who poked its head above the water for some air. “Just useless.”

The turtle just blinked at him and swam away.

~*~*~

It took Jason a few days to make a decision. When he did, he started writing again.

Catherine Todd died when little Jason was 12. She didn’t succumb to heroin addiction; instead, she got over her pride and went to the Free Clinic in Crime Alley and extended her life by a couple of years with the treatments Leslie gave her there. Now an orphan, the doctor took little Jason (or Jay as Jason started thinking of him) under her wing while Social Services tried to place him in a proper foster home.

While that was going on, Jay wandered the streets he knew all too well, day and night, to distract him from his painful memories.

And then, finally, the fateful night arrived. Jay saw the Batmobile parked in an alley one night. He only felt spite towards the big bad Bat. What had he ever done for him? He never came to Crime Alley, never kept people like his dad from beating on him and his mom. He didn’t save people like his mom, too weak to work and provide for her young son. Jay couldn’t hurt Batman, but he could embarrass him.

Steal his tires and make him walk home.

Yeah.

Jason knew he was channeling too much of himself into this scene, but he couldn’t help it. This was the night everything changed.

He wove a new narrative starting that night, one where Bruce wasn’t quite so lost to his consuming quest for justice. Yes, he was still horrible about expressing emotions, which led to arguments, but that what teenager didn’t think their parental figure was a douche sometimes? Jay had a better relationship with Dick too. Sure, it was rocky at first, but Dick soon learned having a little brother wasn’t a horrible thing after all.

A few years passed. Jay was Robin and having the time of his life. It wasn’t easy and there was a ton of hard work to put into it, but the rewards were more than worth it, as far as he was concerned. It was magical.

Then the Joker shot Babs, destroying Jay’s world that nothing really bad ever happened to the good guys.

Jason wrote the next few months quickly, trying very hard to keep his own experience of that time from coloring his narration. His world started spiraling around that time, but this wasn’t happening here. No, while Jay dealt with his anger, he unexpectedly made a new friend.

Enter Tim Drake.

This was something Jason took another long break to think over before he continued. He and his replacement had a long and complicated history, but with his newfound perspective on things, he decided the little shit wasn’t actually half bad. In fact, if he hadn’t died when he did the first time, he and Tim may have become friends on their own.

It had to take dying a second time for Jason to realize it.

“Never let it be said I can’t learn from my mistakes,” he said to the turtle one evening as he fished from the dock. The little painted turtle bore the brunt of his random musings. At least now it didn’t swim away whenever Jason spoke to it. Instead, it would sit on the stump Jason dragged into the pond one afternoon, giving it a spot to sun itself.

The turtle blinked at him.

“I mean, Tim wasn’t really that bad. Sure, he was kind of a dick, but we all were.” It was easier to refer to everyone in the past tense. His story was over after all, so theirs were too. “I like the idea of little me and tiny stalker Tim being friends. Why not? It’s better than what happened to me next.”

Jason went with it.

Jay and tiny stalker Tim met one stormy night when the skies overhead were about to explode with an unseasonably ferocious storm that came out of nowhere. Robin saved Tim after he slipped on a fire escape and almost broke his neck in the subsequent fall. Things progressed and Jay learned tiny Tim knew his big secret, knew Dick’s identity, as well as that of Bruce’s. For his own protection, even though Bruce didn’t want him to, Jay started training Tim.

It was interesting how the new narrative flowed so easily despite the changes. It was still dark, but there was a hell of a lot more hope than his ever had. He wasn’t around for when Bane broke Bruce or the massive earthquake that destroyed Gotham, but his story didn’t need those events. No, it was taking on a life of its own and deviating so much from what Jason considered his timeline that it was starting to feel like a completely different story altogether.

He was okay with that.

Jay had the chance to outgrow Robin and pass it on to his replacement. Tim’s mom still died, but Jack lived and was a semi-decent father, if somewhat clueless to what was going on when Tim’s friend Jay came over to their Upper West Side apartment. They’d sneak out onto the roof and spar. Over summer vacation, Bruce created a fictional study program for Tim to travel to Europe where he encountered Shiva and ended up training under her instead. Jason had always found it hilarious that his replacement had been trained by Shiva at one point; little goody two shoes knew some vicious moves that never saw the light of day until he became Red Robin.

As boys so often did, they grew up. Jay graduated high school and went on to go to an Ivy League university, something Jason always dreamed of. His degree wasn’t in literature like so many people expected of him; it was medicine. Alfred and Leslie wouldn’t be around to patch them up forever, so someone had to take the initiative and learn to do it right. This was when he gave Robin to Tim. He’d been training hard for this moment and deserved it.

Bruce was so proud of him, even if he had a hard time admitting it. Still, Jay was fluent in reading Bruceisms, so it was clear as day to him. He was away at university when Damian made his first appearance. Bruce being Bruce, he kept the news quiet, so it was Tim who informed him, showing up with a bandage around his throat from where he’d had the blade of a sword held against it.

This was where the story started getting tricky and Jason had to stop writing again to plot things out. First and foremost, if he kept going on the way he was, Jay wasn’t going to end up married to some nice girl or even Donna Troy. Nope, he was going to end up with Tim.

So how did he feel about that?

Jason didn’t have a lot of experience with relationships and he could honestly count the number of meaningful sexual encounters he’d had while alive on one hand. Which was just sad, but that’s how his story was written.

“This needs some research,” he announced to his turtle friend.

It blinked at him in reply, just like it always did.

A couple months later (Jason was thorough in his perusal of the ever-so-helpful supplementary materials bookcase), he had his answer. “Why the fuck not?” he mumbled as he picked up his pen once again.

Shit happened, of course, because this was Gotham after all but that whole battle for the cowl fiasco never happened and while Tim did disappear for a while after Dick took Robin away from him, he kept in touch with Jay, who was the only person who believed him when he said Bruce was still alive and Darkseid didn’t kill him. They both had a great time saying fuck you to Dick when Tim came back with his proof. Bruce returned, just as grumpy as usual and Jay went back to college, because med school was a bitch who didn’t wait for anyone.

It was when Tim finally started university that they attempted some semblance of a relationship. The whole thing was cheesy and awkward, but suited the two of them like the massive dorks they both were at heart.

Jason wrote about their eventual marriage, how they adopted a couple of kids of their own because Jay never really took up a hero name after he became a doctor. Dick took to calling him Redwing and it stuck. Tim was Red Robin, so they were Red and Red, which worked for them. They mourned the eventual death of Alfred together, and didn’t let Bruce drive them away after his spectacular explosion which revealed just how incapable he was of dealing with grief. Tim took over Wayne Enterprises for a time, a fact that Damian didn’t like, but he’d long since learned that he wasn’t exactly cut out for the business world, especially one where the board of directors outvoted him at every turn.

Doctor Jay saved all their lives at one point or another on his surgical table down in the Batcave.

He saved lives instead of taking them.

In a way, Jason decided this was his atonement for all the death and destruction, all the pain and suffering he’d caused his family. Even if everything he knew was gone, they all lived on in him. This was his way of honoring their memories, by giving them a version of him that was a better man, one who was affected by all he’d seen and experienced and did something to actually help.

As he approached the end of the story, Jason grew a little misty eyed. But he stuck with it, writing Jay’s death with him surrounded by his loved ones. Tim, his children, even his grandchildren. Heroes, every single one in their own unique way.

He set his pen down and rubbed at his eyes. It was finally done.

“Emotional?” a voice asked from the doorway to the cabin. “You’ve been at it for a long time.”

“Fuck you,” Jason growled and pushed away from his desk. “I’m done. I did what you asked for. Here’s your fucking story.” He slammed the final page onto one of the massive stacks that sat beside the desk on the floor. There were more papers than he remembered sitting there. 

“You did.” The man in white entered the room and approached the desk, the massive story Jason had written. “You didn’t try cutting corners either, from the looks of it.”

“I said I was gonna rewrite my story, so that’s what I did. That kid in there gets to live a long and full life, surrounded by the ones he loves and who love him in return.” Jason swallowed against the lump forming in his throat.

The man didn’t miss it. “Something the matter, son?”

What was the point in lying to someone who could probably see through him from a million miles away? “Just…a little jealous, I suppose,” Jason admitted. “I’ve lost count of the months, years, I’ve been working on this story. Hell, probably even decades. You could say I’m attached to it.”

“Well, that’s good then.” The man beamed at him and touched the papers. Under his dark fingers, they shimmered before disappearing.

“What the fuck?” Jason shouted and lunged at his afterlife’s work. It couldn’t be gone. “No!”

“Just relax,” the man said and a light reappeared where the stack had been, coalescing into a large, heavily bound book. “A story is much easier to read when it looks like this.”

Jason sank to his knees as relief tore through him. “Christ, give a man some warning.”

“Sorry.” He didn’t sound very sorry as he hefted the book. “So, you’re free to go, Jason. Where do you want me to send you? It can be anywhere you like.”

It had been so long since Jason had even thought about taking revenge on his writer that the reminder was jarring. The urge to maim and destroy had dimmed so much that it was almost a non-existent ember within him. So much for revenge. 

He sighed heavily and glanced at his book. “To be honest, there’s only one place I really want to go.”

“Oh? And where’s that?”

Jason nodded at the book. “There. That life right there, it’s everything I didn’t know I wanted.”

The Morgan Freeman lookalike smiled beatifically, like a proud father whose overly stubborn son just came into the light. “Then come into the garden you created, Jason. It’s where you’re meant to be. Just like the one who came before you and wrote your story.”

Jason’s head jerked up. “What?” he asked, startled.

“The one who wrote your story? When she was done, she also stepped into the pages. Just like every other person before you has.”

Scowling, Jason rose to his feet. “So the choice to go wherever I want was all an illusion?” Go fucking figure. The afterlife was nothing more than a book-churning factory. All those distant stars, each one containing a soul locked in place until they enter their stories to live again. What a crappy version of reincarnation.

“Not exactly,” the man replied. “You already said you want to enter your story. Is that really so bad of a place to go?”

“No, but that’s beside the point. You said I could go where I want. What if I didn’t want to go there?” He pointed at the book. “What if I want to stay right here and just read for the rest of eternity?”

The man laughed loudly, a rich rumble that no doubt was supposed to put him at ease. “Actually, you could do that. You earned it by writing this monster.” He hefted the book. “The only problem is this life won’t have a chance to be born until you enter the pages. A break is all well and good, but wouldn’t it be a waste to let this version of you not have a chance to live?”

It was the guilt trip of all guilt trips. “Fuck. You.” 

“Do you really want that break, Jason?” the man asked in a mild voice. It was like being lectured by Alfred. “You’ve earned it. But more than anything, I know you just want to be happy. So why delay that chance?”

The spiteful urge to say no rose up in Jason. He stalled by glancing at the bookcase, at all the books he’d read and reread, as well as all the ones he’d meant to get to eventually. The desire within him to finish them died. He knew he wouldn’t enjoy them, not knowing what he did now. Here he was, still getting dicked over.

At least it was going to be a long time before he was in this position again. And who knew what Jay would write, once he woke up and grieved for the loss of everything he loved. But Jay was also a realist and a survivor; he would get over it enough to do his part. Hell, perhaps he’d even write the adventure story he and Tim were constantly joking about within the pages of his book. Thinking on it, Jason was almost positive he would. It would be Jay’s tribute to Tim and his way of keeping their love alive. 

And since he was technically Jay now, it would be a story that he would write at some distant point in the future. 

“I want to go on the record by saying this fucking sucks and your afterlife can go eat a dick.” Jason huffed and crossed his arms, looking everywhere but at the man in white. “So how does this fucking work?”

The man approached him and held out the book. “When you’re ready, just open it and start reading.”

Was he ready? Again with the illusion of choice. Jason shook his head as he opened the book. “Goodbye to me.”

He vanished in a flash of light into the pages. The book landed on the floor of the cabin with a hard thunk.

The man in white stooped over to pick it up. “Always so stubborn,” he said and took a seat on the sofa. “Now let’s see how things change this time.”

He started to read.


End file.
